Warning Signs-How Her Record Collection Can Predict Your Immediate Future

Look...you're not going to get the full picture by parsing her profile on EFornicate, or even a quick afternoon meet-up at Java Pimps. Your buddy's wife, the one who set the two of you up? All she really knows is that Tracy or Jennifer or Heather works in her department, is about a year out of a long-term relationship, and wouldn't it just be perfect if the two of you got together? She seems so nice.

Well...hell..they all seem nice. I'm sure Squeaky Fromme was a delightful conversationalist, and could keep you sweetly entranced, before stabbing you in the neck with a salad fork. Elizabeth Bathory, I'm betting, was an enchanting host, as long as one overlooked her quirky little mentoring techniques. Bloody Mary? She was a hoot...until you made an off-handed Pope joke, and found yourself dipped in oil, tied to a stake, and flame-broiled to a crispy finish.

At best, you don't want to spend your loot on a date you know you aren't going to enjoy. At worst, you don't want to end up with a full-bore Hell queen who plans on ending the evening by wearing your skin like a scuba suit and chewing on your spleen.

Lucky for you, there is a time-tested method for getting to the bottom of things, quickly, and without asking her to take a personality profile assessment, which cost an assload of money, and are easy to beat, anyway. Simply check out the music collection. All the information you need is there.

Make the date, make plans to pick her up at seven. Get there at 6:57, just enough so it doesn't seem too early, but early enough that she'll still be putting finishing touches on her kabucki mating face.

Slink over to the music collection. Check out the female artists. Take it in. These are the artists she identifies with, the ones she models her attitudes after. See which artist appears the most in her personal library, and  refer to this handy guide. Then you can accurately prepare yourself mentally, emotionally, and spiritually for the next few hours.

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Amy Winehouse-There is a good chance you will wake up in the morning, alone, pants-less, and in a dumpster, with a rose behind your ear and a confused smile on your face.

Adele-Wondering why she's so reserved at dinner? Well, she just decided what dress she's going to wear when the two of you get married, made a "honey do" list for you to complete when you get your dream home in the suburbs (you know, the one with the deck and the two-car garage), chosen names for your three children (two boys and one girl), and is now trying to decide what song she'll boo-hoo along with at your funeral.

Celine Dion-Same as Adele, except she already knows the funeral song.

Sarah McClachlan-You may have George Clooney's looks, Albert Einstein's brain, and Bill Gate's wallet...you'll still never measure up to her Papillon, Mr. Pistachio Fluffikins.

Taylor Swift-Nice girl, seems normal. What's going on behind that sweet smile? "He is perfect, I never want this night to end, I have found my soulma...OMIGOD DID HE JUST LOOK AT THAT OTHER GIRL WHILE I WAS THINKING ABOUT HIM HE DID THAT GODAWFUL PIG I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I HOPE HE DIES I REALLY REALLY DO!!"

Madonna-Hope you like dancing with a bottle-blonde cougar in a leather bustier, a glow-stick crucifix, and a Batgirl mask, high stepping in her stiletto heels while continuously and loudly suggesting to onlookers that they should "Take a pitcha, it'll fuckin' last longa"

Bjork-You won't understand a word she says, but you will be endlessly amused.

Hole-You won't understand a word she says, but you will be endlessly dodging vomit.

Chrissy Hynde-"Dinner and bowling? Sounds great. Let's go."

Jefferson Airplane-Sweet girl, bit of a freak, might have a good time if you can stomach the patchouli.

Lady GaGa-Will spend the entire evening dressed in a burlap sack with purple boa, staring at you through bright green safety goggles, trying to convince you that repressed homosexual urges are perfectly natural, and even a little hot.

Lita Ford-If you can look past the way she's going to enter the restaurant by throwing up a two-fisted "devil's horns" salute and shrieking "HELLOOO, APPLEBEES...are you ready to RAWK", you might actually have a good time.

Indigo Girls-It's going to be a short and awkward night.

No Doubt-Unless you have some weird squirrel / helium fetish, you might want to sneak out of the bathroom window in whatever stinky vegan cafeteria she convinces you to "check out".

Sinead O'Conner-"How can you enjoy a date when the world is in such piss-miserable shape?"

Pink-She's really goddamn annoying, but you can't help but be impressed with the way she cold-cocked the bouncer.

Alanis Morisette-A movie, back row? You're golden.

Heart-The night will end innocently, with her strumming her acoustic guitar and composing a song about how your eyes are as dark as the midnight sky. Also, as a practical matter, consider a buffet.

Stevie Nicks-Don't ask questions. Just run away. Now.

Joan Jett-The perfect date. The two of you are going to end up checking out other women over beer and wings at Hooters. Enjoy.

Of Ducks and Dumbfuckness

As an answer to the entreaties to give "Duck Dynasty" a chance and re-assess the show patriarch's clown-hood: until a week ago, I had never seen the show. But, since this nasty cold I've been fighting all December left me with some unexpected viewing time that coincided with the uproar, I tried watching a few episodes.

Just my opinion, and maybe I just watched a couple of bad episodes, but it's a crappy show and a waste of my time. It's obviously staged and poorly executed. Mildly humorous, pandering junk designed to make other inbreds feel good about their chromosome shortage. 

In other words, just a typical "reality" show. The fact it pivots on some swamp tick who looks like the spawn of Minnie Pearl and Ezekiel the Prophet, and growls, stomps, and slobbers like a mean, ol' pecker-wood, is a novelty I can do without, but I can see the marketing appeal. 

Hell, I can see the "entertaining" aspect of the show...nothing more fun than watching a good ol' monkey shit-fight at the zoo.

But, yeah...the guy's a clown. A performer. A comedic actor.

He dresses up in his costume and performs for the camera. It puts money in his pocket. More power to him. I never said he was an idiot. There is no truth in that; he may have mentally-paralytic compliance bias, but he's not a fool. Just a clown. 

The conservative movement, following precedents set by Rush Limbaugh, Ted Nugent, and Sarah Palin, decided he was clown enough to be considered one of their standard bearers. 

So when he spewed his hateful and uninformed bullshit in a magazine interview, and A and E did the same thing to him that MSNBC initially did to Nartin Bashir and Alec Baldwin, the conservatives blew their self-righteous gasket, and decided to make it a "first amendment" issue. 

It wasn't. And it isn't. Even clowns are subject to whims of their employers, if they wish to stay employed. They can't go into the boss's office, piss on his file cabinet, and expect the boss to laugh it off. 

So here's the deal...this guy wants to espouse exclusion and call it his spirituality, that's his shtick, his choice. Whatever gets one through life, I'm for it. And if he can parley it into a television career and make some coin on top of things, more power to him. I don't have to respect it or him, but I respect anyone's right to act like an ass and yammer like a fevered baboon all they want. God knows I've done enough of it, myself. Free country. And no one, left or right, has said otherwise. 

Hell, he may truly love others, no matter what their situation. I don't know what's in the man's heart. I sense he's probably more of a good guy than a huckster. I give him that benefit of the doubt. Most clowns are good people. 

But when the right-wing noise box decides to turn him into some sort of iconic figure, to say that he represents what is good and pure, and that anyone who disagrees, in any way at all, is deserving of social marginalization, at best, and eternal damnation, at worst, then it's time we all take a step back, look at things with reason, and say:

"Whoa...let's all calm down...it's only a clown". 

True Conservative Colors: When Logic Fails, Piss on the Dead Guy

The conservative reaction to the death and funeral of Nelson Mandela, including the politicization of the actions of President Obama, has been even more ignorant, cowardly, and vicious than I ever would have imagined. I mean, I knew many conservatives, especially the louder ones, were lacking in intellectual firepower and testicular heft. But they surpassed even my meager expectations.  

One particular friend, whom I have known since I was a little kid, chimed in with this little nugget of Facebook brilliance:

 In the "for what it's worth" column...It’s uncommon for the U.S. flag to be lowered in honor of foreign leaders’ deaths. Obama issued a statement of mourning earlier this year after the death of Margaret Thatcher, former prime minister of the United Kingdom, but he didn’t order the lowering of the American flag. In fact, the last foreign dignitary to be memorialized with the flag was Pope John Paul II in 2005.

Thatcher was an elected official, and a polarizing one, in her own country. She is not remembered well, certainly not as fondly as Reagan is in this country. She was, however, a staunch conservative whose policies have been long since discredited and dismissed, and an ally of Reagan's. Bringing her up as an example is only the first indication of the ridiculous "dog whistle" intent of this statement.  

Mandela was far more than an mere elected official or bureaucratic functionary. He was a revolutionary figure, one who was imprisoned for fighting against an oppressive social machinery, and whose message of tolerance, equality, and (most importantly) forgiveness gives him the rightful status as one of the leading humanitarian figures of the last century. 

Not unlike the cited Pope John Paul II...the flags weren't lowered to celebrate their position or their accrued power; it was to celebrate their accomplishments as human beings. Maggie simply doesn't make the cut.  

Oh, yeah... Mandela was black. Like Obama. You hearing that dog whistle a little clearer now?  

So, a couple of his more "enlightened" FB followers chimed in.  

"That tells us that POTUS identifies with a anti-colonialist, (never renounced} communist" 

"It is unfortunate that, by definition we are "required" to pay any attention to anything this man says or does...Sad days for our Republic." 

"He makes me sick!"

"This was stupid, showing once again that he is the WORST President EVER!! His loyalties disgust me." 

And a couple of his other followers gave the "thumbs up" to these pearls of pig-shit ignorance.  

To the first gentlemen...I'm not sure why pro-colonialism would be such an enticing concept. You must see something in the oppression and eradication of a culture that I just don't get. Or maybe you're just a dick.  

Yeah, I'm going with the latter.  

And Mandela was never a Marxist; he allied with an also-outlawed communist party that aligned itself, like Mandela's ANC, against apartheid in South Africa. Such alliances, in times of conflict or for political expedience, are nothing new. The United States allied itself with Stalin, to cite the despot who exploited Marxism to the most dramatic and tragic effect in history. Of course, some called Roosevelt and Truman, who championed that alliance, communists, as well...with the same dazzling lack of accuracy as those who say the same about Mandela.   

Mandela never, at any time, claimed or endorsed the concept of Marxism, not in his private letters or public statements, and there is not even a shred of anecdotal evidence to suggest otherwise.  

So later, another friend, who I  have known for almost two decades now, and like a good deal, started harping about Obama "Taking selfies and cutting up at a funeral". 

To which some fuckwit replied: "I would have been asleep at that funeral. so freakin boring hear how horrible whites were.... he was sentenced for a reason...LOL" 

and (same guy):  

"I think Obama really is thanking his ancestors for being taken to America. he has it good..LOL" 

Let's forget the obvious racial undertones of this yammering squirrel monkey, and examine the "facts" as presented by this little round table... 

A) It wasn't a funeral. It was billed as a memorial service and celebration of Mandela's life. It was closer to a pep rally than a funeral, with bright colors, chants, singing and dancing going on in the audience, even while the speakers were talking. Had you watched it, rather than tossing off groundless insults, you probably would have known that. More comparable to an Irish wake than a funeral.  

B) There were no words demeaning whites or any race at the service. In fact, the sight of whites and blacks dancing and hugging, in South Africa, and the messages given by the speakers I heard, was quite inspiring.   

C) Obama is not the "descendant" of African-American slaves, but of a Kenyan father who lived in the United States of his own design. Doesn't this guy know he's mucking things up for his "birther" buddies? 

D) The fact that conservatives are jumping on this, and his micro-second handshake with Castro, just illuminates how empty their policy arguments are.   

One more thing...all of you  left wing pages that keep reminding me that Dick Cheney and Ronald Reagan and a bunch of other stodgy old white men voted to keep apartheid in place? Shut the fuck up. Anyone with any sense of history knows that. But this was a time to celebrate Mandela, and what he did, and what he represents, not a chance to excoriate political foes.  

Because in the end, to me, anyway, what Mandela is to be celebrated for is not merely his willingness to fight for what he believed, or the strength and resilience he showed during his twenty-seven year imprisonment, or his political and legislative skills as the President of his country. 

It was in the showing us, ultimately, the astounding and beautiful power of unconditional  forgiveness. 

So, I guess I should forgive the dumbfucks I have quoted here. 

Doesn't make 'em any less of a dumbfuck, though. 

Biff Pocoroba Still Outside Looking in and Other Injustices

WARNING: Tasteless stuff ahead. May be considered misogynist, racist, homophobic, or otherwise politically incorrect. Those with asses too tight to enjoy are encouraged to run on over to pinterest and check out needlepoint patterns of unicorns, while those of us with a stomach for the real world attend to things here.  

Major League Baseball, the wacky folks who gave us the Infield Fly Rule, the Designated Hitter, and Bob Davidson, among other affronts to common sense and decent, decided a few years ago to nudge their Hall of Fame balloting a bit. And they may have actually done something right. 

This is the Expansion Era Committee ballot, not to be confused with the suddenly stingy BBWAA ballot. These ballots are chosen by historical review boards, and will include, in the future, separate ballots for the Pre-Intergration (1871-1946) and Golden (1947-1972)  era. Soon to come: The Blow Era (1978-1989), the PED Era (1988-2005), and the Sam Holbrrook is a Blind, Fucking Idiot Era (October 5, 2112 through October 5, 2012). 

Billy Martin
Joe Torre
Tony La Russa
Bobby Cox
Marvin Miller
Dave Concepcion
Steve Garvey
Ted Simmons
Dave Parker
Dan Quisenberry
Tommy John

A lot of managers up for consideration. I figure Martin or LaRussa to go in ahead of Cox, as committees like this just love 'em a drunken guinea bastard with a bad dye job. 

Bonds and Clemons are often said to have been probable inductees, even without the PED usage that reinvigorated their careers when they should have been swigging Metamucil and enjoying their farewell tour. 

Bonds deserves to go in despite mucking around with his body chemistry enough that he ended his career looking like the Incredible Hulk with a fine mahogany finish. The first two-thirds of his career are deserving. But he won't get in, as the committee and writers invoke the "Asshole Clause".

Clemons, though, without the juice, was Dwight Gooden. Not quite good enough, long enough, to make the cut. Plus, points taken away for bad decisions. Joe Dimaggio? Marilyn Monroe. Bo Belinsky? Mamie Van Doren. Call me old-fashioned, but banging Mindy McCready is bush league, and should be taken into consideration. 

And not only does Stenbrenner NOT belong in the Hall, the committee should rent a bus, drive to Hell, and piss on him as he shovels Centaur manure into the bottomless pit. 

If I voted on this committee? I'd probably go heavy for non-players. Torre, although he had a playing career worthy of consideration, gets the nod for his overall contributions to the game. And if you had told me, in 1985, that I would be saying that today, I would have asked for a hit of whatever you were smoking. But he gets a vote. 

No idea why Concepcion isn't in. He deserves more than any player on this list, without question. He should have been in by now. He was the best all-around shortstop since Honus Wagner, and his numbers would have been even better had Dave Pallone not been such a vindictive little bitch. He gets a vote. 

Miller deserves consideration, although I don't see him as a singularly baseball-centric character. This seems a reasonable way to recognize his contributions, and I think he'll get in. Not with my vote, though. 

Bobby Cox gets my vote because he's Bobby Fuckin' Cox, and if you don't like that, fuck you. That's another vote.

Cox and LaRussa would both assuredly get in through the standard BBWAA voting. Martin has not, and this is his shot. For all the drama, he belongs. So he gets a vote. 

Steve Garvey, Tommy John, Dave Parker, Dan Quisenberry and Ted Simmons? Nope, nope, nope, nope, and nope. Fine players, all. Just not quite there. Of course, neither was Bert Blyleven, but he whined until the writers finally put his ass in, probably in an effort to shut his yap, once and for all. 

That leaves one vote, and LaRusaa ain't gettin' it. Fuck him. That miserable fucker turned a blind eye as his Oakland teams ushered in the steroid era, jacking themselves up with everything from Durabolin to Liquid Plumber, and then he rode similarly junked-up players, like Mark McGwire and Albert Pujols, to tainted success in St. Louis. He'll get in, but, more than any other non-playing candidate, deserves to be given the Unofficial Steroid Blackball treatment. 

Fuck it...I'm writing in Glenn Burke.

The Butterfly Effect

...had twenty million of you zipperheads not bought copies of "Achy Breaky Heart" two decades ago, you would not be self-righteously complaining today about Hanna Montana pimping her cooter on the VMAs last night. 

Serves you right, goddammit. 

 

Peckerwood, Puh-leeze

Somebody please tell me...why the hell do some white folks get all bent about being socially forbidden from using the word "nigger" in casual context? What the fuck is wrong with you people? 

Is your arrested development so acute that being told you shouldn't use a word just pushes you into a foot-stomping hissy of righteous indignation? Would your miserable life somehow be turned into a heavenly garden of rainbows and unicorn farts if only you could utter the word one time? Is the fact that someone enjoys a certain social loophole that you are denied really grinding your ass that bad? 

How about this? You don't use it because it's disrespectful. Isn't that enough? 

My dad is almost eighty years old, my mom a few years younger, and both are as politically conservative as they come. They are a decade older than that gravy-pimp Paula Deen, and both grew up in the Jim Crow south. I have never once heard either of them utter the word. When I used the word, as a very young child, they sat me down and told me the word was inappropriate. 

Not because it was politically incorrect, or because it was inflammatory and could engender confrontation. But because it was disrespectful. Period. 

It's a word of contempt and hatred, of precisely focused fear and violence. What good can come from using it in response to being called a "cracker"? Is it going to reinforce some deep-seated resonance of the rights you enjoy? Does it somehow make things "balanced"? 

Hell, no. You're just dusting off your ignorance and taking it out for a stroll down Dipshit Lane. 

I mean, I have no problem with it being used in an artistic context. In Quentin Tarantino's hands, or Lenny Bruce's, or Dan Jenkins', to cite three white artists who have used the word in their work, it becomes a term of descriptive revelation and vivid honesty, highlighting the folly and hatred inherent in those who casually use it. Black comedians like Richard Pryor and Redd Foxx used the word extensively, in an effort to soften it's blow. 

Hell, if some rapper wants to use it, to take the word back and strip it of it's power to degrade, I'm all for it. He can say it all he wants to. It doesn't magically make me look like less of a four-toed, knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing troglodyte when I use the word. 

And frankly, since we're airing our grievances here, the fact that said rapper has to grab his belt buckle and slam it up against his nuts to keep his Levis from hitting the pavement is far more ridiculous, to me, than my being denied socially accepted usage of a six-lettered word. If that makes me an old cracker racist, then so be it...I still think it's simple public decency to just pull. Up. Your. GODAAMN. PANTS. 

And I don't give a rat's red ass that Charlie Rangell thought it would be a good idea to trot out the ol' "cracker" tag when he referred to the pig-ignorant fucks who fought, violently, against civil rights in the Jim Crow south. If he really has issues with all white folks (and I don't think he does), he's burning up his goddamn karma points, not mine. And referring to him by such a hateful term, in retaliation, as some have suggested we Caucasians be "allowed" to do, only serves to demean both sides. 

"Cracker", or "honkie", or "ofay", or "blue-eyed devil"? None of those terms have the force of history behind them. Sorry. It's hard for me to get too upset. Perhaps if someone called me a "republican", or a "New Orleans Saints Fan", I could work up a little indignation. 

I have used the word "nigger", when not specifically discussing the word, at least one other time in my life that I can recall. My friend Tim Lowe and I were at the 328 Club in Nashville, checking out Public Enemy. I think it was 1991. We were leaning on the bar, and I was bopping my head and singing along. I kind of shocked myself when the line "This is what I mean, an anti-nigger machine" rolled effortlessly off my tongue. 

Terminator X made me do it. Way to go, Norm. 

And one more thing. Why do some keep referring to it as "the N-word", other than in goose-necked attempt at misplaced political correctness? We know what the word is. Coyness doesn't really buy you any points, here. If your credibility in such matters is so wobbly that the mere mention of the word as an objective noun is going to cause others to look at you askance, there's probably a little more going on there than you want to admit. 

If I have failed to offend anybody with this late-night rant, I apologize. I sincerely tried.

This is Keith. Today is his birthday. Say "Happy Birthday, Keith".

Keith plays guitar. He plays like Chuck Berry, had Chuck ever picked up the nasty habit of huffing goofballs made of China Brown, Peruvian Flake, and rat poison, while mainlining Tabasco Sauce into his eyeballs. 



This song is called "Gimme Shelter". It features Keith and his buddy, Charlie, who plays drums. Here, with their buddies Mick, Bill, and Mick (a different Mick, also playing guitar, but not as fey and self-obsessed as the first one, who sings), and the epochal assistance of a nice lady named Merry Clayton, they, in one song, singularly define Rock and Roll.

This is a live version of the song. Some consider it the best version ever. It IS pretty good. But it's not as declarative as the studio version. 


The studio version is on an album called "Let It Bleed". It is the greatest Rock and Roll album of all time. Period. I suggest you go and find a copy, and put it on. Turn off all the lights, grab a bottle of brown liquor, preferably named after a fine southern gentleman, hunker down with the one you love, rut like a fevered weasel, and stare down the apocalypse like a man.

Notes on a Wisconsin Hangover

1)Yeah, Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker ultimately prevailed in keeping his office after a successful recall campaign. But it took a 7 to 1 financial advantage, with cash piped in from mostly out of state sources, to handle an off-cycle election in which Walker's opponent wasn't even known until a month before the election. Claiming some kind of philosophical victory or true political resonance here is roughly analogous to kicking the shit out of Stephen Hawking and claiming yourself UFC Heavyweight Champion. 
2) Exit polls have shown a clear and distinct tilt towards President Obama as the favorite Presidential candidate of many who voted for Walker. Weird, but not unprecedented. In spite of all the money poured into the Republican war chest, and the endorsement and campaigning skills of Republican favorites like Gov. Sasquatch of New Jersey, Walker's election was hardly the conservative mandate the RNC will doubtless try to spin.
3) The fact that Walker was subject to a recall election should be considered a costly  indictment. The recall election cost the Republicans a seat in the state senate, which gives the Democrats control of the state senate, and if that remains through the November elections (the legislature doesn't convene until after then), it will prevent Walker from ramming more unconstitutional bullshit through the statehouse and down the throats of working people in Wisconsin. At the very least, he won't be able to call any special sessions in which he will introduce bills to use debtor's prisons and internment  camps for minorities and abortion doctors as cheap and affordable labor sources for his pals, the Koch brothers. 
4) The Koch brothers (Mario and Luigi) are evil bastards. 
5) Vince Lombardi was a loyal Democrat. 
6) Dem and labor provided the torque for this particular blow to their solar plexus. Not only was the recall itself  ill-advised, on principle and practicality, in spite of Walker's egregious actions, the Democratic nominee was a poorly chosen dupe, a squishy loser and small-time pol who threw a monkey wrench into the proceedings by  entering the election a month before the Democratic primary. 
7) Scott Walker may one day, indeed, be Wisconsin's entry in the contest to name biggest hemorrhoid on the ass of history.  But Badger voters have a history of rank weirdness, sending as they did Joseph McCarthy, a vicious, red-baiting proto-teabagger and drunken jackoff of titanic proportions, to the United States senate. TWICE. You may be a vindictive, gnat-peckered, intellectual sloth, Scottie boy, and a borderline fascist. You've got potential. But compared to McCarthy, who long ago earned his spot on the Mount Rushmore of douchebags, you're small potatoes.

With A Capital C/ A Political Rant

I saw, today, a bumper sticker that made me chuckle and wince at the same time. It said simply "Don't Blame Me...I Voted for McCain/Palin".

Now, it is, as I write this, June 23, 2009. Barak Obama has been in office, at this point, for just a tad over five months. What the hell we would blame on those who voted for him, I don't know. It is, of course, partisan bickering from a party/movement that is fast swirling down the socio-political toilet and headed toward the septic tank of misbegotten ideals and selfish, caustic immaturity masquerading as political philosophy. More laughable, as a sentiment, than anything. Nothing more than a feeble attempt to paint the current president with the stink of failure that George W. Bush seemed to don so effortlessly.

Also a page from the Democratic party's book of tricks, the "I told you so". The same thing was done to Nixon, as well as Bush 2.0. More than a few affixed stickers to their cars that said "Don't blame me, I voted for McGovern", or "Don't blame me, I voted for Gore". Not once, however, did I see a sticker reminding us they voted for the losing candidate AND their running mate. No "Don't blame me, I voted for Mcgovern/Shriver", or"...Gore/Lieberman". The willingness to do this with Sarah Palin speaks volumes of those who consider her to be a serious candidate and bulwark of all that is good and holy in our country.

Let's not mince words, here: Sarah Palin is a befuddled and hideous she-beast, an ignorant and intellectually lacking shrew of the highest magnitude, a cultural fascist, and a politician of such exploitative and greedy bent that she was willing to enlist her own daughter in willful deception; a pol of the Bush stripe, lacking in curiosity about the world, driven by misguided religious idealism, and offering nothing except a monumental case of opportunistic grab-assity. And some fools (really, there is no other word for them) want her to be the face of their movement.

More power to them, I say. As a long-time Democrat, and proud of it, I am baffled by my own party's incompetence in the legislative branch, led by a polarizing and incapable Nancy Pelosi, and spurred on by the milquetoast Harry Reid. At least the emergence of Palin as the face of the Republican party shows an equal lack of political astuteness, as well a willingness to wallow in the sad puddle of social Nazism masquerading as "family values", at the expense of examining the real issues. The relative incompetence of the Pelosi/Reid axis is a starburst of brilliance compared to the insipid public display and self-serving ravings of the Alaskan governor.

The emergence of such a senseless twit as Palin will probably cement the spiraling fate of the conservative movement, and maybe the Republican party, as well. Rather than seize the day with more capable Republican leaders, they are going with this bubble-headed cowgirl. Ronald Reagan was able to guide the Republican party out of the wasteland Nixon exiled them to, with a success that remains astounding and impressive. But Palin is no Reagan, who was always respected as a worthy political leader, even by those who disagreed with him vociferously. Palin is a national punchline trying to extend her fifteen minutes of fame and ride it to a serious Presidential run.

Which is entirely possible; I mean, we did elect W in 2004, after his incompetence has already been brilliantly illuminated. But it took a special kind of dimwit, one John Kerry, to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. And Palin makes Kerry seem positively Lincolnesque by comparison.

Trying To Bring Order to the Archived Chaos: Desperate Ravings From an Old Fart

Below is a post I made on a forum I sometimes contribute to. It was in answer to an initial post from a younger person asking for recommendations on older (to him, anyway) rock music, and then another post asking for top 10 lists. As I stated in an even later post, I just sat down to kill a little time during a rain delay in a Braves telecast, and the pompous spewage began.

*****************************************************************************************
Anyone who has seen or read High Fidelity knows asking a music geek to make a list is stiffy-inducing bidness. So I cheated. I made 5 lists. Someone, as Greil Marcus once noted, must take responsibility for tradition. So sue me.

The criteria was fairly simple. Since this is basically an old fart’s thread, every release mentioned has to be at least thirty years old. The only exceptions would be the compilations, which were merely documenting sides that were cut over thirty years ago.

Also, no artist will be cited twice. So while Astral Weeks or Moondance probably deserve to be somewhere in that top 20, I opted to let Van Morrison be represented by his epochal live album. James Brown will be represented by Live at the Apollo, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a copy of 20 Greatest Hits, the single disc digest of the Startime boxset. And if it means Sticky Fingers or Abby Road is unmentioned, well, life will go on.

The first list is the main one, the one requested. It is pretty much an essential group for anyone’s rock library. They will reward repeated listening, and their expression is as strong as their influence, which, in every case, is immense. They can (and probably should) be listened to for historical and academic purposes. But, more important, they should be enjoyed.

The second list is one of compilations. Before Pet Sounds turned rock into an album-focused form, it’s greatest practitioners dealt in the idiom of the single. Artists didn’t record albums, they recorded “sides”, put out as economic, stand-alone, artistic statements. Early rock artists considered albums mere incidental collections, and that aesthetic was championed by some artists even after the album’s emergence as the dominant medium of choice. These artists deserve to be recognized, even though they may not have released albums that hung together as a cohesive statement. And the compilations listed are as essential as anything on the first list. In a few cases, more so.

As an aside, many of the artists here have, available, 3-. 4-, and more disc box-set anthologies, of varying degree and worth. For the sake of convenience, expedience, and expense, none are listed here. Although a couple, like the Bo Diddly set, are two disc compilations in an unwieldy box format.

The third list is simply the next best ten albums. But any one of them could safely be placed on the first list without much argument. The well-rounded geek will have working knowledge of these, as well.

Fourth list is of personal favorites and quirky albums that may not be for every taste, but will still reward certain listeners. And if they may not be considered essential, those wishing to understand the genre and expand their horizons would do well to lend an ear.

Fifth list is of live albums, an altogether different beast. Most live albums serve as anthological overviews at best, contractual obligations at worst. The albums listed transcend those confining parameters, and present live performances that differ enough from their studio correspondents, or just put them over with more verve, so as to make them worthy aesthetic statements in their own right.

Also, except for the first list, they are in no particular order.

ESSENTIAL

Let It Bleed -The Rolling Stones
If you were to put a gun to my head and tell me to name the greatest rock and roll album (so far…who knows what awaits?), there would be no hesitation. Not just for sheer invention and expression, but for balls-out swing. “Gimme Shelter” opens the album, and I feel about it just as I feel about the album as a whole; it is the apotheosis of the a genre, from Keith Richards‘ re-engineering Chuck Berry into something far more intimidating, to the chicken skin call and response between Mick Jagger and Merry Clayton. Plus, the awesomeness of Charlie Watts, who single-handedly defines rock drumming not just by sheer wallop, but by underscoring the melody (especially on the chorus) without overwhelming it or losing the groove. And that is just the first cut. The title cut and “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” are on the same level, and even such "filler" as “Monkey Man” or “Live With Me” is miles beyond what is passed off as a “masterpiece” by those of lesser heft.

Who’s Next - The Who
If you were to put a gun to my head and ask me to name the greatest rock and roll album of all time, there would be no hesitation; it would be Let It Bleed. BUT…in the back of my mind, there would be a little voice screaming “What about Who’s Next, you dumbass?” Preceded by the worthy silliness of Tommy, and followed by the lofty but soggy pretensions of Quadrophenia, Who’s Next avoids those pitfalls, and stands as a stunning and economical distillation of angst and liberation. Bookended by legitimate anthems (“Baba O‘Riley“ and “Won’t Get Fooled Again”), it never lets up. And culminates in the greatest scream in the history of the human larynx.

Bringing it All Back Home - Bob Dylan
Many will pick Highway 61 Revisited or Blonde on Blonde, but BIABH, free from the historical weightiness of the former and the excess of the latter, stands as Dylan’s most purely expressive and inventive work. And it rocks more effortlessly than either.

Music From Big Pink -The Band
American music done up pure and plaintive in parts, volcanic and hillbilly funky in others, then both all mixed up. This album heals.

London Calling - The Clash
A vinyl record could, at one time, allow for 24 minutes of music per side. 48 minutes an album. Sometimes, an artist would have a feverish burst of creativity, and release a “double album” two albums released together, because 48 minutes was simply not enough to contain it. Now, due to CD technology, double albums are far less prevalent; you can, after all, get up to 80 minutes of sound on a compact disc. Still, doubles were cool, because they simply had a lot of stuff to dig through. And most of the artists who released them were artists of higher stature; record companies were reluctant to release doubles by those not capable. That said: I know about Layla, Exile on Main Street, The Wall, The White Album, 1999, Eat A Peach, Blonde on Blonde, Songs in the Key of Life, The River, Trout Mask Replica, and Electric Ladyland. London Calling is still the best double album of the rock era. Lean, insightful, and vicious, it not only defined a movement, it broke through the self-imposed irony of it’s more visible but less capable adherents, and touched a genuinely raw and human nerve.

Revolver-The Beatles
Truthfully? Between this, Rubber Soul, Abbey Road, or The White Album? Just pick one. Revolver is my personal favorite for it’s overwhelming melodic hookage and it’s introduction of George Harrison as more than just a sideman thrown a bone.

Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs - Derek and the Dominos
Son, this is the sound of a real man crying.

In a nutshell? Eric Clapton fell in love with his friend George Harrison’s wife, and crafted an astonishing set, a bluesy two-record rumination on love and it’s consequence. As charged with personal emotion as any work listed, the album never lags, but lets up on the intensity just enough to catch your breath and enjoy the melody; then it’s back on the horse. Clapton’s guitar duet with Duane Allman on the title cut is the summit, rock guitar at it’s most highly mastered and felt.

Born to Run -Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Bob Dylan as a Jersey street urchin filtered through Phil Spector, hard rhythm and blues, and the Dave Clark Five. If you can keep from raising your hand and grinning from ear to ear when he screams “Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run”, then you are in the wrong blog. Go find one about needlepoint or candle making, and take your Enya and John Tesh records with you when you go.

Pet Sounds - The Beach Boys
They were capable of rocking; their earlier sides and their 1973 live album proved that. Pet Sounds, though, is a glorious pop masterpiece, a lush and symphonic swirl of intense harmony and melodic structure that makes sense of it’s often sloppy sentimentality. May initially be a little sticky for some tastes, but the sheer musicality will eventually win you over.

What’s Going On - Marvin Gaye
One of those records that you think will sound dated, then you put it on, and it just slaps you sideways. Sonically adventurous, and James Jamerson’s finest moment. Modern Soul with a conscience that questions the inequities most modern soul and rap artists choose to ignore.

ESSENTIAL COMPILATIONS

The Great Twenty-Eight -Chuck Berry
With the possible exception of the Robert Johnson box set, there is no more reliable blueprint for what Rock and Roll would become. In a recent interview, Bob Dylan cites Berry as standing alone at the pinnacle, and calls him (correctly) the genre’s “greatest poet”. For the record, yeah, he is viciously mercenary and a genuinely weird cat, and he probably stole his signature lick from his pianist, the great Johnnie Johnson. It diminishes the brilliance of these songs no less.

This sound quality of this set is not great, and there are better sounding and more comprehensive sets. But for a single disc sampler, this one is the most solid from beginning to end.

The Sun Sessions - Elvis Presley
I think it was Lester Bangs who once said, when speaking to a fellow rock critic, that “Elvis was probably the last thing we will all agree on”. And it seems criminal to ignore the great early RCA sides he did. But this set may be the most essential one on the list. The idea of Rock and Roll as a mainstream entity would not have existed without the performances here, and it retains a vibrant groove that still resonates a half a century later.

Anthology - Sly and the Family Stone
If your feet remain still while listening to this, then Haley Joel Osment can now see you. James Brown had already produced socially charged soul music, and Funkadelic would later take it to it’s inevitable transcendence, but nobody did it as smoothly or accessibly as Sly. As writer Joel Selvin stated “There are two types of black music: black music before Sly Stone, and black music after Sly Stone.”

Chronicle - Creedence Clearwater Revival
Less subtle and more cynical than The Band, but no less effective, CCR put it’s faith in the music on the line as no one this side of Bruce Springsteen has been able to do. The original “roots” band, who flied in the face of what was then convention, they even made a ten minute version of “Heard It Through the Grapevine” sound less indulgent than urgent. And, John Fogerty’s cries to the contrary, the magic lies in the communal grooves, not the copyrights.

Chess Box-Bo Diddley
The most underrated of all of rock’s founding fathers, Bo took the blues in new and weird directions, the famed “Bo Diddley Beat” being merely one of his innovations. Darker than Chuck Berry, scarier than Jerry Lee Lewis, and meaner than Little Richard, Bo was the real father of testosterone drenched genres like heavy metal and rap, possessing a sly sense of humor and capable of walking a line of braggadocio that never loses it’s verve; it never has to engage in the silliness into which metalheads and rappers often lapse. Never afraid of experimentation, even to the point of picking up a violin (his first instrument, actually) to record “The Clock Strikes Twelve”. Plus, he was a surfing gunslinger.

18 Original Greatest Hits - Jerry Lee Lewis
The word “primal” was invented for Jerry Lee Lewis. Possessor of white-trash voodoo and playing a wild, gospel-inspired piano, and putting on a live show that nobody wanted to follow, he produced the cuts on this Sun sampler while in his prime, which may have burned hotter than anyone else, including Elvis.

The Very Best of Otis Redding, Vol 1 (Rhino)
Otis is still the standard against which not just southern soul, but southern music, is measured. This is just a sampler.

The Georgia Peach-Little Richard
Be careful, because the Little Richard library is littered (as are many of the early artists mentioned) with shoddy "greatest hits" packages that are not the original hits, but live recordings, radio shows, or even studio re-recordings. Frankly, I'm not even sure The Georgia Peach is still in print. The important thing to remember is to get the Specialty recordings, which may or may not be licensed out to other labels; seriously, stay away from anything that doesn't say "Specialty" on it, it is garbage.

This collection, though, influenced by jump-blues artists like Louis Jordan, will bounce out of your speakers.

The Kink Kronikles - The Kinks
Ray Davies and band were capable of producing great albums, and this collection excludes their great early sides. Still, these cuts, a compilation of stuff released between 1967 and 1970, is the band at it's best. Quirky, cinematic, and constantly walking the line between sentimental and sarcastic.

Byrds Greatest Hits (1999/Expanded)
Because they went through a few incarnations, from jangly folk-rockers to hippy experimentalists to epochal alt-country architects, one would be advised to seek out the box set to get the full picture. But there is not a car radio in the world that wouldn’t sound better with “Mr. Tambourine Man” or “Eight Miles High” blasting out of it. Yes, they spawned David Crosby, and for that, they should be ashamed. That brain dead walrus went on to foment wimp-rock, and remains one of the biggest wastes of sperm the genre has produced. Still, in the Byrds, his candy-ass leanings were tempered before they got too far.

BUBBLING UNDER, BUT STILL ESSENTIAL

I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You - Aretha Franklin
One of Soul’s first fully formed albums, an unintentional song cycle that inspires and empowers. Plus, the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section is up to the challenge laid down by Booker T. and the M.G.s and the Funk Brothers.

Are You Experienced - The Jimi Hendrix Experience
The sonic revolution, started by Cream, made fully manifest. The Aquarian Hippy Bluesman persona had the stagecraft and vocal personality to complement his guitar virtuosity, which is still singularly heroic. Yeah, the lyrics are goofy. Doesn’t matter; they still work.

Armed Forces - Elvis Costello and the Attractions
Still the highlight of an amazing career. More of a singles act, at this point, this album (originally titled Emotional Fascism) stands as a thrilling, self-aware collection. Lyrically ambitious, with the Attractions steaming along and pushing every angry point, sometimes wrapping things up in dense contradictions that can only be fully expressed sonically.

Every Picture Tells Story-Rod Stewart
See, at one time, Rod could sing, really sing, and peeled off layer after layer of any song he put his throat to. This collection of hard (but acoustic based) folkie rock is criminally underrated today. It still snaps when you hear it, and Mick Waller’s drumming, which has been described as “cataclysmic” is as simple and soulful as anything this side of "Gimme Shelter".

The Pretenders
I remember this one coming out of nowhere. One American Girl and three Brits craft an album of emotional contradictions and musical swagger, using tricky time signatures previously attempted (with much less nimble results) only by hoary proggers. Plus, Chrissie Hynde puts the ideas through without the clumsy aping of blues and and RnB clichés most non-punk vocalists of the time were guilty of.

IV - Led Zeppelin
Frankly, i don’t care if I ever hear it again, but only a fool would deny it’s impact.

Imagine -John Lennon
If it doesn’t quite have the melodic variety to rank with the best of the Beatle’s work, it’s only a notch below. Plus, he pretty much keeps Yoko’s trap shut, giving the album a less caustic vibe than Plastic Ono Band.

The Velvet Underground
As the saying goes, it only sold a few thousand, but everyone who bought it went on to form a band. Haunting, cynical, and minimalist, but not without a certain warmth.

Dark Side of the Moon - Pink Floyd
Never a personal favorite, but I have had a copy in every incarnation, even 8-track. It just seems to be one you have to have for certain moments, I guess. Anything that sells twelve zillion copies has to have something going for it, beyond gimmicky sound effects and aural trickery. Like hooks, melody, and the chilling bravado of Clare Torry’s vocals on “Great Gig in the Sky”. I used to casually dismiss it as mere stoner muzak, but I was wrong.

Dusty in Memphis - Dusty Springfield
Several other albums could easily have gone on this list; Rocks by Aerosmith, or Damn the Torpedos by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, to cite a couple of personal favorites that just missed the cut. But the graceful groove of DIM, ahead of it’s time in many ways, should be heard. It is sadly overlooked today. Probably the most “grown up” record listed, with Dusty’s gentle voice rolling against the subtle percolation of the Memphis Cats, a session aggregation that had provided a more suitably muscular groove for Elvis and RnB stalwarts like Wilson Pickett.

PERSONAL FAVORITES AND ODDBALL CLASSICS

Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School - Warren Zevon
Not as commercially successful as Excitable Boy, or as mature as Sentimental Hygiene, this remains a successful failed experiment. From the orchestral interludes to the Springsteen collaboration to the spirited but quirky cover (Ernie K. Doe’s “A Certain Girl”) to the near abrasiveness of the title track, everything about this album screams “genius headed for a breakdown, and enjoying the ride”.

Marquee Moon - Television
This album was so far ahead of it's time when it was released three decades ago. Maybe now the rest of the world has caught up with it. The quirky tonalities certainly seem less jarring and more familiar, without losing their bite. Give each piece sometime to sink in, don't just toss it if it doesn't tickle your nutsack right off the bat.

Southern Accents - Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
A song cycle about rednecks, from the redneck’s point of view. Often forgotten about in the Tom Petty canon, this collection ranges from the anthemic (“Rebels” ) to the elegiac (the title cut) to the just plain weird (“Don’t Come Around Here No More”) to the caustically revelatory (“Spike”) to the heart-broken bittersweet (“Wherever You Are Tonight”).

Trout Mask Replica - Captain Beefheart and His Magic band
Jarring and not for the faint-hearted, sometimes dissonant and seemingly ragged, moving through delta blues and free jazz into some weird nether world of sonic discombobulation, with “a squid eating dough in a polyethylene bag is fast and bulbous” being just one of the more interesting lyrical passages, one that includes ruminations on the holocaust, depression by association, and dead bodies. Oh, and household tools and bugs. Plus, two instrumentals named after cunnilingus. All carefully structured and not the free-for-all it sounds like. It’s forty years old, and still way ahead of it’s time.

Best of the Staple Singers
This collection from Stax contains their best known secular work. Funky in the best sense of the word, but more subtle than most of their contemporaries. And no one sings like Mavis Staples. No one.

Katy Lied - Steely Dan
Obtuse lyricism and Brubeck-inspired studio rock? That sounds like a recipe for shit, but there’s enough self-aware humor and musical invention to carry it.

Good Old Boys -Randy Newman
A song cycle about rednecks, from a non-redneck’s point of view. Far more encompassing and objective than one might think. Already talked about in this thread, at length, but it was one of the first records that made me aware of the cinematic dimensions rock music could possess.

Second Helping - Lynyrd Skynyrd
A collection of songs by a bunch of rednecks. Ronnie Van Zant was Springsteen for the working class south. Actually, that’s not true; Springsteen was the Ronnie Van Zant of the working class northeast. Skynyrd fell too easily into caricature, and their bone-headed use of the confederate flag (which, according to some biographies, Van Zant never wanted in the first place and was trying to get rid of) hid a message of simultaneous community and independence. One of Pete Townshend’s favorite bands, and wildly popular in Europe, they had a universality that transcended the ugly symbolism they were saddled with. The only three guitar band that ever really realized the possible depth of their attack. This album is more efficient and focused than their debut (ain’t no “Freebird” here), and if it is a bit too broad lyrically in parts, the point still gets hammered home. “Needle and the Spoon” is no less a southern gothic classic than anything this side of Flannery O’Connor, and “Working for MCA” bit the hand that fed it as Elvis Costello only threatened to do.

Greatest Hits, vol 2 - Al Green
This Motown collection may not have the breadth of his later work, like The Belle Album, or even contain his biggest hit (“Tired of Being Alone”), but it has the hidden classic “Love and Happiness”, plus the better known and often covered “Take Me To the River”, as well as proof of Green’s mastery of song, with his cover of the Kris Kristofferson’s “For the Good Times”.

Second Edition (Metal Box) - Public Image, Ltd.
Hypnotic, entrancing, and sometimes scary. A dissonant, quasi-hallucinatory sonic throb. Post-punk hits the dancefloor, underwater and head first.

ESSENTIAL LIVE ALBUMS

Live at the Fillmore - The Allman Brothers
Jazz-like in it’s sense of musical adventure, Fillmore may have opened the door for dozens of long, dull southern rock “guitar excursions”, but don’t hold them responsible for the sins of those less capable. There may be long instrumental passages here, much, much much, MUCH more than your standard “bridge between choruses” solo structuring would allow. But there are no wasted notes, the sense of interplay is nothing short of astounding (not just the twin guitars, but a rhythm section proves that two drummers can not only work, but thrive), and Gregg Allman is one of the great blues singers, white or black, of the last forty years.

It’s Too Late to Stop Now - Van Morrision
Spirited and orchestrally fleshed out versions of his finer works, including a dazzling live “Cypress Avenue”. Plus, a couple of covers that reveal Morrison’s blues roots. Live albums rarely achieve the sense of dynamics this record has.

The Name of This Band is the Talking Heads -The Talking Heads
Coming out before Stop Making Sense, and featuring the extended lineup they had begun to utilize, this is one of the more exploratory live albums ever. Expanding on the originals, and growing far beyond their “punk” roots, it’s versions are reworked and built upon, not just parroted. Stop Making Sense was a fine souvenir, but this is an adventure.

Live at Budokan - Cheap Trick
Never intended for domestic release, it proved so popular it caused the release of Dream Police to be pushed back, and probably, in hindsight, did more damage to their career than good. Still, spirited versions and a few til-then unreleased tracks, it has since been released in an extended version that is worth the price. One of the best live bands of the seventies.

Live and in Living Color - Tower of Power
The Oakland based funk ensemble is here due to the blistering “What is Hip” and a stunning (there is no other word) 23 minute “Knock Yourself Out” that features one of the most amazing solos of the rock era, Lenny Pickett’s astonishing alto workout (Pickett, as an FYI, is the current leader of the Saturday Night Live house band). Pretty damn amazing.

Made in Japan - Deep Purple
The classic version of the band, burning through extended versions of their catalog. Sometimes called founding fathers of both heavy metal and progressive rock, this album shows them for the white British blues mavens they were. Excessive, showy, and in your face? Yes…and those are some of the good points.

Live at the Apollo - James Brown
You may break a sweat just listening to it. Nasty stuff. It’s essentialism is not negotiable.

Waiting for Columbus - Little Feat
A mixed-gumbo, hard to categorize bands from their inception, this live set finds them augmented by the Tower of Power horn section. Soulful, gritty, and mildly experimental (I mean, Lowell George was a Mother of Invention, for Pete’s sake) and lyrically unique.

Kick Out the Jams - MC5
May be the first punk rock album. Loud, abrasive, and teetering on the edge of anarchy. Politically silly, but strong enough in their conviction to momentarily sway even the most skeptical, at least in regards to noble ideology trumping complacency. And make sure you get the uncensored version: “KICK OUT THE JAMS, BROTHERS AND SISTERS” just doesn’t have the same testicular thump of it's uncensored correspondent.

It’s Alive - The Ramones
Not available domestically for a few years after it's release. I remember paying 23 bucks for the import, a princely sum at the time. Works as a greatest hit sampler, just noisier, and has a few inspired covers, including the greatest ever of “Surfin’ Bird”. Juuuust inching out Peter Griffin.

Number of songs- 28. Album length -54 minutes.

So there ya go. Fiddy indispensable albums. And that is just for starters.

The bitch of it all? Fifty albums, no artists duplicated, and the list still has some glaring and maddening omissions. There’s no Aerosmith or Wilson Pickett. Where the HELL are the Temptations, or Buddy Holly, or Funkadelic , the Yardbirds, Alice Cooper, Patti Smith, the Stooges, or Sam and Dave? No Jethro Tull, John Prine, Todd Rundgren, Dr. John, or King Crimson, Damned, Leonard Cohen, Stranglers, Frank Zappa, Iron Maiden, Roy Orbison, or Black Sabbath? No Mellencamp (sellout bitch that he has become, not withstanding) or Cars, Richard Thompson, Paul Simon, Stevie Wonder, Robert Wyatt, Thin Lizzy, Joni Mitchell, Roxy Music, or Van Halen? No room for lesser known cult artists like Willie DeVille or the 13th Floor Elevators? No David Bowie or Fleetwood Mac or Bee Gees (pre-Saturday Night Fever, of course) or Motorhead? My Lord, no acid stalwarts like Jefferson Airplane or Moby Grape or even the Grateful Freakin’ Dead? Founding fathers like Carl Perkins or Fats Domino, Ray Charles or Sam Cooke, all ignored? How can you have a list like this without a Neville poking around? NO SEX PISTOLS….HAVE I LOST MY DAMN MIND?

We could probably do a valid list just listing some of the omissions. And the really scary thing is, we’re only looking at a span of roughly twenty five years. Our imposed mark-off time stopped at 1980, and the oldest thing here was mid-fifties, the generally accepted time of rock’s “birth”, or, at least, it’s entry into mainstream (lily-white) America. So we didn’t even delve into blues or pre-rock pop.

At least, you can consider the surface scratched. Arguments, alternates and suggestions gleefully accepted. This is, after all, just my personal opinion.

Oh, yeah; everything on the list, with the possible exception of the first two on the first list? Subject to change tomorrow...

MulletSwang: The Reverend's Pocket Guide to Jazz

One of the first entries I ever made on UberMullet was a windy meditation on Miles Davis, specifically, Kind of Blue. Since it is apparently lost to the digital ether, and I listen to jazz these days far more than anything else (or, at least, music with jazz elements...to abridge John Lewis: improvisation, swing, the ability to surprise, and the embodiment of the eternal search for the Blues), I thought I'd post this. In a messageboard exchange, I recently posted what I considered five essential jazz albums, in response to someone who had just heard John Coltrane's Blue Trane album and wanted to know where to go next. The second part is an answer to someone who (rightly) protested the lack of Charlie Parker on my list, and questioned my lack of older, more "danceable" music (said poster is an avid and very good swing dancer). My response explains my rationalization, and gives me a chance to address the work of both Bird and Duke Ellington. The final section is a small list of some of my personal favorites, albums that may not achieve "All Time Great" status, but get repeated and rewarding play here on Planet Bubba.



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1) Miles Davis-Kind of Blue
Still my vote for the single greatest recorded entity in the short history of recorded music. It dictated the cliches and defined post bop jazz. It's consistently revelatory without diluting the sheer emotion that the sounds and structure convey. As I mentioned earlier, Trane's presence here elevates without lapsing into vulgar dominance. The interplay and complementary melodic creativity between the three horns (In addition to Miles on trumpet and Trane on tenor, the amazing Cannonball Adderley provides the perfect funky counterpoint to both Mile's relaxed but raw emotional expression, and Trane's harder intensity. And the word "gorgeous" was invented for Bill Evan's piano work on "Blue in Green". And Paul Chambers on bass and Jimmy Cobb on drums are simply perfect; they don't just build a foundation that the soloists can build on, they subtly add sonic dimensions that enhance the richness of the music being made. Chambers, in particular, shines, partly due to his role; as this was an album of modal experimentation, he could veer off from the more restrictive "chord defining" functions he was normally asked to fulfill, and so had more of a say in the music's progree and impact. But it is not a stretch to say that Kind of Blue would have been far less musically successful had a bassist of lesser empathy and expression been involved. Plus, one of the more under rated jazz pianists, Wynton Kelly, takes over for Evans on one cut, and swings mightily. Everything on this set fits perfectly. A friend of mine, a guitar player not normally given to jazz, once told me he loved Kind of Blue because it was "five guys making music...not just playing, or doing a song...they're making music".

2)A Love Supreme -John Coltrane
Less "number 2" than "1B", this four section suite is more meditation than swinging affair. The swing is there (albeit more graceful than manic), but not for it's own sake.

I know of no piece (with the possible exception of Beethoven's Ninth) that reveals with successive listenings as much as A Love Supreme does. In fact, it may take a few listenings to even begin to "get" it, or at least to see how this is more than just a set of nice sounds.

It is also, I think, drummer Elvin Jones' finest hour. The idea of breaking from single-minded time keeping, and adding to the overall texture, was nothing new. And Elvin had long been known as a "busy" and powerful drummer. But here, he uses the drums as a melodic embellishment in a much subtler fashion, emphasizing underlying themes and melodies, rather than simply accenting the main (and most obvious ) ones, which adds a depth and richness that enhances it's revelatory nature. A copy of A Love Supreme belongs in every household, nestled safely between the Bible and the shotgun.

3)Mingus Ah Um - Charles Mingus
Bassist/composer Minus faced accusations early in his career that his music didn't "swing". Must have stuck in his craw a bit, because nothing has the uniquely fierce swing he coaxed out of his bands around this time, and especially on this album. Without losing any of the coloring or texture he was known for. His septet, a bigger band than most were willing to work with at the time, gave him the voices he needed, while keeping the fluid agility of a much smaller grouping. Black Saint and the Sinner Lady is another Mingus set that achieves that very difficult result, and some would say that for sheer musical inventiveness, it belongs on the list. But Ah Um is equally inventive, if less complex, while more vividly displaying both Mingus' playfulness and his anger. Sometimes within the same song. Indeed, he often turns one into the other.

4)Time Out-Dave Brubeck Quartet
With their willingness to use odd time signatures and their precise delivery, "funky" would not be a very accurate description. Their swing was organic, but mannered, and their delivery could seem more formal statement than joyful expression. Still, in Altoist Paul Desmond, they had one of jazz's true originals, a soloist for whom the word "lyrical" has probably been used trillions of times, with devastating accuracy.

Tangentially associated with "third stream" music, an ill-defined and self-conscious attempt to meld equal parts jazz and western classical influences, they (along with artists such as Bill Evans and The Modern Jazz Quartet) were able to transcend such goofy labeling and develop a natural and unique sound. Time Out is not a revolutionary album (except, perhaps, in a commercial sense), but it is unusually stocked with musical ideas and subtle expression.

5) Out to Lunch!-Eric Dolphy
This is the most "Out" thing on the list, with staggering rhythms, unusual and even abrasive phrasing, and dissonant touches. The musicians at time seem to ramble amongst themselves. Plus, the extensive and jarring use of Bobby Hutcherson's vibraphone lends a chaotic and almost satirical air to the proceedings. If it's not really "free jazz", in the Ornette Coleman vein, it's still far more chaotic than the mainstream listener will probably allow for. Definitely not for every taste, and not an "easy" listen. Still, if you're willing to step outside of conventional notions, such participatory listening will be rewarded.

If you want to hew a little closer to the mainstream, substitute Saxophone Colossus by Sonny Rollins, or split the difference with the tricky and complex, but not-quite-as-harsh-as-the Dolphy Brilliant Corners by Thelonious Monk. That Brilliant Corners is a Hall of Fame caliber album, yet does not represent Monk as well as an anthology of his work would illustrate, is a testament to his genius.

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I have a good friend, a guitar player and teacher of some repute (and a major Django Reinhardt fanatic, to mention someone else who has not been brought up), who makes the case that it is often forgotten that jazz was, initially, dance music. He will make the argument that it went from music of expression (both through playing and in dance) to a cloying intellectual exercise because of Charlie Parker, or, more precisely, because of Bird's acolytes and less talented imitators. Lost in all the celebration of Bird as an innovator and musical revolutionary is that Bird was not trying to foment some musical paradigm shift. He was just expressing himself, and needed the conceptual tools to fully realize his vision. Others, who did not have the same gifts Parker did, mistook the process for the result, and bebop became more of an academic process and technical display. Basically, Bird was so good he almost ruined it for everybody else. And bebop was a contributor to the death of jazz and swing as dance music; Bird's disciples looked down on the more primal (and less complex) aspects of rhythm and blues, which became the dominant dance music for the young, while swing as dance music, absent the more adventurous voices that were concentrating on bebop, morphed into a treacly, cliche-ridden form of pop.

There is another reason for Bird's absence from conversations such as these: he never made an album as fully realized and powerful as those cited, simply because he died before the emergence of the album as the primary jazz medium. He produced some of the most amazing music of the twentieth century, but, again, it can (and should) be heard anthologized, with no thought to context. One of the most powerful aspects of Kind of Blue, Ah Um, etc., is the way the songs segue and complement each other, not unlike a suite or a song cycle. I think of jazz as American classical music, in terms of depth and weight if not form or surface similarity. As such, whereas, say, "Part 2-Resolution" from A Love Supreme can be listened to, enjoyed, and appreciated on it's own, it is more powerful in context of it's place in a series, and not only does it become enhanced, so do the other songs it is placed amongst. No different than listening to the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth; it can be enjoyed on it's own, but the full impact of Beethoven's vision can only be appreciated within the context of the entire symphony.

Now, that does not mean Bird's music was any less powerful or visionary than the artists cited. Far from it. But the post was asking for recommendations because (original poster) mentioned he was trying to build his jazz library. So before I got into the compilations and anthologies (which can be a confusing task for even those familiar with the genre, let alone someone just starting to dig in deeper), I cited what I thought were the most essential "albums as stand-alone entities" I could think of. It should not be taken as a tacit demeaning of the contributions of Bird or Ellington or Louis Armstrong, who I think is the single most important figure in American musical history. It is simply a matter of convenience and idiom.

I almost mentioned Bird With Strings. However, in an effort to try to pick some genuinely indispensable albums, it misses the mark. Also, there has since been a reissue compilation, Charlie Parker with Strings/The Master Takes, which is a two disc set, remastered, that sounds great. A classical music aficionado, this was Bird's favorite album, and the first real merging of Bebop and a string orchestra. I love the set, but some purists don't consider it jazz. For a good intro compilation, the Rhino two-disc set, Yardbird Suite/The Ultimate Collection, has cuts from both the Savoy and Dial labels (very unusual), and has been remastered to alleviate some of the noise. This set not only showcases his most important and groundbreaking work, as well as his best known compositions, it is a set of astonishing emotional depth and expression.

Duke Ellington is a little more problematic. The sheer breadth of his work is astounding. A friend of mine is a jazz writer, and an Ellington fiend. He has been working since the early eighties on a complete Ellington discography, including live recordings and radio shows (which are his specialty as a writer and historian). Years ago, I figured I needed to listen to Duke more, and asked him for guidance on where to go next. This man, a writer and disc jockey, an acknowledged Ellington scholar, was literally at a loss. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. Part of it was, I'm sure, was he didn't want to just parrot the compilations and most famous recordings that he knew I was familiar with. He finally just laughed, shook his head, and said, in awe as much as frustration, "There's just so much".

I'm partial to an album from 1959 called Blues in Orbit, with some of playful stuff from Ellington mainstays like Ray Nance (including a violin solo on one cut), Harry Carney and Johnny Hodges. This is really a look at the Ellington Orchestra just doing what they do best. Also, you can't go wrong with the Live at Newport '56, which lives up to it's reputation. I tried to keep from citing live albums, or Newport would have been in my initial top five. This is big band jazz at it's best. It positively blisters.

Also, the series of duets he recorded with bassist Jimmy Blanton, and has been packaged and repackaged (mine are on a CD called The Jimmy Blanton Era, from the Italian "Giants of Jazz" label) are amazing, and are way ahead of their time. The Blanton-Webster edition of the band is considered by many to be Duke's very best. There are several compilations available, Never No Lament, a three-disc box set, being the best I've heard.

To get off the beaten track, here's a list of some of my favorite albums. They may not be "essential" or even "great", but I enjoy them.

Sonny Stitt-Goin' Down Slow
Unjustly criticized by some as a Bird imitator (Sonny insisted, and there is anecdotal evidence to support it, that he was playing "like Bird" before he had ever even heard him), Stitt began to shed his rep as a ditto when he began to focus more on tenor, although he played both alto and tenor throughout his career. "Miss Ann, Lisa, Sue and Sadie" is the album's centerpiece, a small string section and percussion providing a very different, but no less ferocious, kind of swing.

Plenty, Plenty Soul-Milt Jackson
Vibraphonist for Modern Jazz Quartet, Jackson did this session with a band that included the underrated tenor man Lucky Thompson, and it's some of his finest work. Also, Horace Silver puts a hard bop spin on Jackson's work, a difference from the more scholarly approach one is used to hearing from John Lewis, the pianist and driving force behind the MJQ. Also, as a rule of thumb: if Cannonball Adderly is on it, it's worth the price.

Money Jungle-Duke Ellington, Charles Mingus, and Max Roach
This blue note set gives Ellington bigger billing, which is understandable, given his status and fame. But it is a true trio set, just three legends playing their their tails off.

Conversin' With the Elders-James Carter
Young (at the time) tenor man Carter invites some older players (as diverse as trumpeters Lester Bowie and Harry "Sweets" Edison) to play. More fun than self-reverential.

Rainbow People-Steve Turre
Trombonist and conch shell virtuoso Turee has amassed out a high quality body of work, but this (released just last year) may be his finest. His sound is as soulful as any jazz has produced, and he's as fine a bandleader as he is a player. "Groove Blues" and "Brother Ray" stand out. I think Turre is one of the most inventive artists playing today. My favorite album of last year, of any stripe.

The Blues and the Abstract Truth-Oliver Nelson
Ostensibly an alto player, and a fine one, Nelson the arranger and bandleader was even better. Blues is melodically inventive without sacrificing expression or becoming gimmicky. Nelson later moved to Hollywood and was gaining success as a TV and film composer, in addition to his jazz pursuits, but died suddenly at only 41.

Nuclear War -Sun Ra Arkestra
This may not be the mainstream swing of the other stuff, but I like it.
Sun Ra considered the title track, recorded in 1982, a vamp with electronic sprinkling, a surefire dance floor hit. It was rejected by his record company at the time, and released on a British punk rock label. And if you can't appreciate a call and response featuring the phrase "Nuclear War/It's a motherf***er/don't you know/if they push that button/your ass gotta go/and whatchoo gonna do without your ass?", well, maybe you need to go seek out some old Lawrence Welk records to listen to.

Blue Soul-Blue Mitchell
Blue gets overlooked in favor of labelmates Freddie Hubbard and Lee Morgan, and indeed, his sound was less unique and personal, if no less expressive. This set, though, is definitive hard bop, and the band here (including drummer Philly Joe Jones) is textbook in it's empathy, drive, and creativity.

Last Date- Eric Dolphy
Recorded just over a month before he died, it wasn't his last session; there was one more. But this was recorded with a European rhythm section that he was so happy with, he had made plans to use them again. It's a live recording, a lot less chaotic than some of his stuff, much more standard than "free", although there is a clear elasticity to the band that sets it apart. Great version of "Epistrophy" to kick things off. And the version of "You Don't Know What Love Is" here is nothing short of amazing, with Dolphy doing some amazing flute work (an instrument I normally only tolerate).

Rant: How the Jann Wenner - Chris Martin Two-Man Circle Jerk is Corrupting Our Young

So I'm browsing the book store, and pass the magazine rack. I see there a copy of Rolling Stone, a rag for which I have had no use in years. It one time pretended to "speak" for a generation, but it never really did, not the way most underground press and music magazines did. It aspired to sit astride the Atlantic Monthly and New Yorker, not to tear them down and piss on the burning corpses they left behind. No, it was an organ run by a deluded and sycophantic tool, and remains to this day a manual for such deluded sycophantic tool-ism. It remains neither soulful nor skeptically insightful. It is gloss, as it was even in it's "hippy" days, albeit now hosed down and bereft of feminine leg hair and patchouli stank. And if it's publisher has been gussied up as well, he is still a sniveling maggot who thinks nothing of rigging the voting process for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, amongst other douchebaggery.

Now, to be fair, Rolling Stone did have it's moments. The opportunistic placement of John Lennon upon it's flagship cover was a herald of sorts, and it did provide a stage for one of America's most original and powerful literary voices, in Hunter S. Thompson, as well as music critics as brilliant and diverse as Ralph Gleason and Lester Bangs. But Thompson was less a voice of the counter-culture Rolling Stone gleefully exploited than the sinister little devil on the left shoulder of the mainstream, and said critics lit on the magazine's perch less for the platform it provided than the paid byline and expense account.

Since Rob Sheffeild left a few years ago, the magazine has been culturally and aesthetically clueless, a Maxim for those who think themselves above such neanderthal conceits. It's journalistic and critical bent is best exemplified by it's film critic, the journalistically cancerous Peter Travers, who seems to take self-glorifying and snarky cluelessness to new heights with every issue.

But, this one had Springsteen on the cover. So maybe the Boss is not as relevant as he once was, and maybe he is a dinosaur. So fucking what? he's still a true believer, with the abilty to inspire. And here he is again, on the cover of Details...I mean, of course, Roling Stone. So I picked said copy up.

And before I turned to the Springsteen interview, the mag fell open to the page revealing the winners of their annual reader's poll. And who did the readership of Rolling Stone choose as their band of the year, and their last release as album of the year" ?

Coldplay.

I nearly threw the rag back on the shelf. Why the hell would I want to read a magazine who's target audience is one that chooses Coldplay as their cultural heralds?

I can tell you, speaking from over three decades of obsessive music geekdom, including times when I would sell it during the week, write about it at night, and play it on the weekends, listening to it virtually every waking hour, reading about it and constantly drinking it in, that there has never...ever...EVER...EVER...ben a music entity as singularly overrated as the aforementioned Coldplay. My personal whipping boys cannot achieve the blatant levels of pure shit that Coldplay attains; even the Eagles had hooks and harmonies, and the Doors had to be appreciated for a certain train wreck/Holiday Inn lounge cheesiness appeal to them. Hell, even Journey had a singing rodent, and Survivor had the testosterone pump that is Eye of the Tiger.

Coldplay, however, achieves a certain banality only hinted at til now. Take the sonic veneer of Pink Floyd, strip it of any dynamics or depth, or even pretense of melody, for that matter, add sophomoric lyricism that stomps it's foot and demands the world be made a better place, throw against a wall, see what sticks, and call it art. Never mind that overdubbed and heavily affected percussion does not equal groove, nor does aimless noodling equal musicianship. From their pedestrian name to their boring, overwrought stage presence, they are an entity so musically empty as to defy logic.

I think I've figured it out, though. We experience periodically an intense nostalgic resonance with the time period two decades previous, an affinity for it's cultural and societal cliches. Remember how big the Fifties were in the Seventies, with the Fonz and ShaNaNa on the tube every week? How paisley and big, rubbery fonts became the rage in the Eighties. And how the nineties almost revived the bell bottoms and Framptonesque talk boxes. Seriously, was a mullet not just a geometric realignment of the shaggy but clean Doobie Brothers look we all tried to achieve growing up in the Seventies?

Coldplay is nothing if not an Eighties tribute band that just happens to do it's own material, with that queaky clean and synthetic sound, complete with over-modulated drums, and the kind of self-aware anguish only the Me Decade could have produced. Throw in some of shrill keyboard "texture" that helps define their "sound", and it practically qualifies as incidental music for Molly Ringwald's cherry picking.

The celebration of such a vapid musical entity in such a journalistic Trojan horse held such possibilities for ironic bedevilment, but why waste the energy? As it was, all it really did was showcase a demonically powerful vortex of pure, unadulterated suck.

Really, in it's own way, a thing of awe. But you'd still be well advised to stay away from it, lest ye be sucked into the maelstrom and be tarnished.

Don't say I didn't warn you.